


These Battle Scars Don't Look Like They're Fading

by Miss_Fandoms_Shakespeare



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Feudal Japan, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Orochmaru kicks ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 07:55:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13095753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Fandoms_Shakespeare/pseuds/Miss_Fandoms_Shakespeare
Summary: The first time I went back, I didn't know anything other than pain and confusion. I knew so little of this world, but here I was. Told to fight alongside one of the best.AKA Nina writes fanfic for English Lit again and this time there's time travel and angst. Title from Battle Scars by Guy Sebastian.





	These Battle Scars Don't Look Like They're Fading

**Author's Note:**

> This actually turned out well amongst the piles of writing I've done this week (a total of almost 6k words over 48 hours) and I have a bad habit of writing fanfic for Lit.

The first time I went back, it was the dizzying rush of cold sliding down my spine that was the first shock. The painful pull of something tugging from deep inside my gut. It was shocking and incapacitating. I didn’t know what to do except collapse to the ground in a heap when the sensation stopped. It was that first time that I met him. I met his servant first, technically, as she was the person who I collapsed in front of. Thinking I was nobility who had fallen ill she took me inside and gave me a room. I am still grateful to her, even knowing that she is now dead because of that kindness. 

The first time I went back, it was the states of wonder and awe that made me most uncomfortable, although the remarks about how I was so beautiful I could easily be a courtesan or a geisha. I believe they meant it as a compliment, but being compared to hired lays, despite the fact that they were rather rich and sometimes worked as spies, wasn’t something I enjoyed. But the stares were worse. I knew they were because I was an oddity to them, small and fair skinned, small eyes and a flat nose, but also with arms that carried thick muscle and legs that could hold me up in a run for hours. The servant, Kiyoko, told me it was odd. I had the face and hair of a noble, but muscles larger than a peasants. I don’t remember the story I told her to explain, most likely the truth. It was later that first time back that invading forces, men on horses with long spears and two swords in their belts. Kiyoko explained to me they were samurai, soldiers who trained for years before swearing their loyalty to a daimyo, a feudal lord. 

The men who attacked us were samurai for a rival feudal lord. All the powerful men were at war right now, they all wanted to take over Japan. Kiyoko hid me away and helped me escape, but it cost her greatly. She died to get me out, all I left with was a long, thin cut down my forearm. When I was safe in a grove of trees, watching the pretty house burn, I felt the cold slide down my back and the painful pull and then I was back in my apartment, the only lasting impression of my time gone was the scrape, still bleeding lightly down my arm.

* * *

 

The second time I went back I still felt the cold and the pain, but it wasn’t the growing shock it had been the first time. This time back I only fell to my knees, and it was his room that I appeared in. I learned his name this trip too. Orosuki Sakumo. A samurai, which I knew from the two swords he had been sliding into the wide strip of fabric around his waist. Sakumo had seemed shocked to see me appear “in a cloud of mist” as he described, but he did not turn me away or take off my head. Another servant working for him, Kiyohime, had told him the story of my arrival the first time. I was surprised to see the house standing. In the week that I had been at home, three years had passed here. I had hated my name in my own time, it was stuffy and traditional, but here it made me fit in, here it was a blessing. Sakumo allowed me to stay, and asked about the muscles I had. Like the others from the first visit, he was interested in how such a small person could be so strong. I mumbled an excuse about fighting, and he handed me a sword from the rack on the wall. I wondered why someone would need to keep a rack of swords and blades and short knives over their bed. Then I remembered the attack from last time and the thought dropped away. 

I followed him to a separate building several yards away from the main house. The floor was covered in tatami mats and the walls were thin and breathable. Sakumo stood on one side of the square room. I stood opposite. Sakumo gave me a second before running at me and striking. On instinct I threw the sword up and jumped back, fighting the urge to close my eyes and feeling the jarr of the impact travel up my arms. Sakumo withdrew and looked at me. “You’ll do well in training.” It took me several seconds to translate out of the Japanese to English. I had spoken Japanese with my parents when I was a small child, and it is lucky I still remembered most of it.

* * *

 

My third visit was uneventful, in the beginning. I had been transported back after a particularly vicious spar with Sakumo. I returned not one hour of being home. A single day had passed for Sakumo. We continued to train. I took martial arts and MMA from when I was five. Sakumo was impressed by my fighting knowledge and expressed his joy at only needing to train me in weapons. We trained for several months, and I wasn’t worried about my own time. I didn’t have a consistent job and my landlady knew I tended to travel for competitions. It was in this third visit I fought in my first battle. Sakumo had taken me into a small town not far from the residence to get fitted for proper armour and had been supplying me with kimonos and sandals. I kept insisting to pay him back for it, Sakumo refused, telling me I was his guest and apprentice. He would cover the costs of my training, feed and clothe me, and in return I’d fight beside him and give him my earnings. I thought he was too nice and felt flattered. I mentioned it once to Kiyohime, and she just smiled and asked if I found Sakumo handsome. That made me think for a moment. Did I find him handsome? The short answer is yes, I did. His hair was short, but well-kept, and training pushed his body into good shape. He had remarked before what servants had mentioned when I first arrived before the attack, that I was beautiful, striking. He compared me to a well-tempered tanto once, and to that I had no response. Several days after being fitted for the armour, Sakumo came to me and said we’d been called into battle, another feudal lord had made moves against us. I felt nerves flutter, and called upon the meditations Sakumo had taught me for calming myself. 

It took us three weeks to reach the battle grounds. Sakumo warned me I would have to kill. I felt queasy, but I couldn’t die in this time. I was starting to miss home more than anticipated. It had been almost a full year here, and I couldn’t figure out how long it had been for my time. Had my mother called me? Had my trainer stopped by to ask if I was alright? Did people think I was dead?  I had plenty of time to wonder. It was around then that Sakumo shifted from being a teacher to a friend. He wasn’t much older than me, just a few year, and he liked poetry, something I could relate to. He would recite poems and haikus he had memorized as we travelled, laughing at the funny ones and appreciating the beauty of the more somber. We arrived on the battlegrounds in the middle of a clash. Sakumo and I managed to stick together, but we were put in a front line, not far from the most brutal and deadly part of the battle. 

When I took my first kill I felt squeamish. The blood sliding down my sword, dripping onto my hands. It was rare to kill with the katana; most samurai racked their kills up in a large battle with a bow, but the man, an ugly, broad soldier with fire in his eyes, sweat dripping down his face, and scars across his cheeks, he snuck up behind me and my sword drew faster than and arrow from my quiver. I nearly dropped my sword, but once I was sure he was dead I cleaned the blade off on his pants and sheathed it again, once more shifting to use my arrows to pick off the enemy’s men.  But I felt the cold line of ice and the sharp tuyg, no longer painful, not after the pain I had experienced training, and found myself standing in my living room, dressed in full armour, another man’s blood still on my hands. I found it strange then, but my first thought was that I hoped Sakumo knew that I went home, and that my absence did not signify my death.

* * *

 

The fourth, and last time I went back happened the next day after I returned home. I paid my rent and called all the people I’d worried about on the road. I almost slipped up and told my mom I was older than I should have been. Then I felt the cold and the tug and my excitement flared. I couldn't wait to get back to Sakumo. The thought made me pause. I took some breaths, and as the feeling of traveling passed around me, the thought emerged. I loved Sakumo. Hm, not something I could have thought would happen. Then I was standing proudly before him and my mouth dropped. He was stunning, and when he saw me his face lit up in a small smile. “You are alright. That is good. I was very worried.” I nodded and after a moment of hesitation hugged him. He hugged back, and I felt a light kiss pressed to my cheek. “It is good you came back, Orochimaru.” He said, and I felt the excitement flare again.

 

The next morning we awoke before the sun to the brass of a battle alarm. Sakumo and I jumped up, hastily put up armour, and charged into battle with the rest of the men. We fought and killed and somewhere along the field Sakumo and I separated. This fight was more intense than the one I fought in yesterday. More brutal, more bloody, more important, I could tell. This was the deciding factor, the last chance for the enemy and the last victory for us. And so I fought with all I had. Hours passed but finally the victory gong rang out. The enemy retreated. We had won. My first instinct was to whip around, to find Sakumo, must find Sakumo, he has to be here somewhere, where is he? “Sakumo!” I called out, hoping he’d call back. Instead, another Samurai, a woman named Tsunade, fierce and strong, brought me to the medic’s tent. I was ushered inside and given the news. Sakumo died in battle, killed himself valiantly, protecting his dignity and honor and the rest of the medic’s speech was drowned out by the buzz in my head. For the first time in months I fell to my knees, let the tears fall. I heard a strangled, tortured scream. It wouldn’t be until much later that I realized it belonged to me. I pressed a kiss to his cold lips, and then stood, attempting to collect myself. I left the tent with my head dropping, and found a small clearing to pray for his soul and grieve. When I felt the cold it felt impassive, evil and wrong. I knew it would be the last time the ice travelled down my spine, bringing me to this time. I took a look around, breathe din the smell of the air, and then welcomed the sharp, painful tug of travelling back home.  

I stand in my apartment, still crying, looking around aimlessly as I realize that the man I loved is dead, has been dead for centuries. I feel my stomach drop and I fall to the ground in a heap, just like the first time I travelled there to him. 


End file.
